


FIC: Golden Hopes [The Mentalist fic]

by BlueDiamondStar



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: AUish, Fic, Paint It Red Monthly Challenge, my muse has packed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueDiamondStar/pseuds/BlueDiamondStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He misses the old days. But there's always been a hope, a lonesome sense. So far it's been all on paper, but you never know...</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIC: Golden Hopes [The Mentalist fic]

The Mentalist  
Golden Hopes  
T  
Patrick Jane  
A/N: written for Paint It Red Monthly Challenge October 2013.  
Prompts used: November 2012:  
you never know and January 2013:  
Letters.  
Spoilers: absolutely none, nada, zilch... because I'm too far behind to have any...

Summary: He misses the old days. But there's always been a hope, a lonesome sense. So far it's been all on paper, but you never know...

Possibly an AU, but with canonical feelings.  
Don't eat me, my muse has packed and they left out last two eps from s4 so I'm actually pretty mad at them.

 

★★★™★★★™★★★

 

This was never what he had in mind. Actually pretty much the least of all that could've had happened that night when he decided not to listen Lisbon. Because this not only ditched any chances of catching Red John but also pretty much made his life rather miserable.

Patrick Jane definitely wasn't a man made for sitting around doing nothing but filling endless sheets of paper with words. Yes, he was reduced to the point of sitting in that damn chair for what already seemed a small eternity. And all day filling all those papers with words that felt so empty and meaningless. To him.

He'd written about small things at first. Like apples that tasted as if they were full of life and energy of sunshine, which was most likely truth. Those apples the Nurse Sunshine brought were from her garden and the most delicious thing he's ever tasted ever since his life turned ash of the ruins it already was.  
Then he wrote about tea. How much a cup of tea could do to one's body and soul. Then how to blend some homemade tea flavors. It was a whole novel about tea Patrick Jane style.

Then he'd written endless passages of descriptions of his old team members and friends. Not that he would ever let them see any of it. No, he was just told to write as a part of that fancy therapy he hated so much it brought fury to his being and made his sea-colored eyes glow brighter and left his golden curls even messier.

And yet he kept doing what they said, and kept writing. Sometimes he wrote a letter to somebody. Lisbon, Van Pelt, even Cho and Rigsby. He wrote them long letters that were filled with longing and loneliness. It possibly spoke volumes about the mental state he was in, but psychologist had assured it meant he cared and missed people he once secretly called family. That it was only normal and expected given the situation.

The situation itself was not a pleasant one. The truck that took him out probably didn't get a decent scratch and driver most likely was still asleep after his body had stopped rolling down the slope.  
And to say that his memory was patchy would be a total undertsatement. His memory palace was in pieces and shattered to some limit he wasn't sure he processed anymore.  
But Jane was known to be a mystery and a piece of art in his own way. No doctor could tell how he did it, but he managed to remember most of what and who he was.

And Patrick was cautiously optimistic that his body will that brilliant mind of his once everything was sorted.

To answer why he suddenly was in Seattle was probably harder than to guess what his Nurse Skippy had for lunch. He still knew his CBI fellows and recalled some of his circus buddies, but to dig out an explanation for some other memory shards was a whole lot different story.  
But letters and all that writing helped his confused mind to start rebuild part of the memory palace, although he guessed it was more a villa than a palace.

And just like that, one day he dug out some other debris from his damaged mind and put it on the paper. And miraculously it had felt so much better than getting new socks. He wrote another letter, a confession. And now Jane felt some new energy rising from the depths of his core.

That day he made his first steps. First independent steps.  
And for once there was hope brighter than the gold in his hair.

The following evening he got out on the roof and watched sunset. The golden and orange hues, highlighted by purple, violet and green, made the whole thing feel better.  
And he wrote another letter. And painted the sunset from memory. The Nurse Lovely sent it for him.

A week later there was a visitor for him, after he was done the daily routine.  
And for the first time in a long time Patrick felt happy. Truly happy.

Because you can never know when your life might change, or when your wish might come true.  
You can never know what a simple sentence can lead to if you just let it reach the person you care about the most.

Just like you can never know which of the most simplest things would turn out your greatest inspirations...

 

★★★The End★★★


End file.
